


Rescue

by sansasparky



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-23 06:03:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16153109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sansasparky/pseuds/sansasparky
Summary: Alayne knew they expected her to be afraid, when the Hound came.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this back when I first read the books four years ago. I relate to Sansa so much, and Littlefinger's grooming of her in AFFC is very difficult for me to read. This story is the direct result of me yelling 'LEAVE HER ALONE YOU CREEP' at the book a few too many times. 
> 
> I'm not in love with this fic, but we all need a bit of sappy wish fulfillment sometimes.

Alayne knew they expected her to be afraid, when the Hound came.

The maids were out of their wits with terror. They shook and moaned and spoke of his brother the Mountain and his three murdered wives; the trail of carnage and rape he left wherever he trod. Alayne would have been shaking too, had the Mountain come to the Vale.

She could hear them all, whispering of Saltpans, a whole town butchered and torched. Of his capacity to butcher, Alayne had no doubts. But he wouldn’t set a town alight. He _wouldn’t_.

Her father’s guards spoke in edgy tones of the rumours that the Hound had died. Alayne had heard nothing of this, and she was glad of it. Such a thought would not have given her any comfort at all, though she was sure the rest of the Seven Kingdoms must have felt very differently.

The guards spoke as though the Hound had been resurrected, and Alayne prayed that it was so, prayed that he could cut his way through them to her side as he had during the bread riots. There were only ten guards, the others having been slain during an attack by outlaws two weeks past. Ten of them to one of him, and yet Alayne knew they were almost as frightened as the maids. Even Petyr looked worried, though he did his best to hide it.

Alayne wasn’t afraid. Not in the least. And not because she was bastard-brave, either. A spark kindled in her tummy the moment she heard them speak his name – a spark that had been extinguished for so long, ever since they beheaded her father, or perhaps even before that, perhaps when they killed Lady. The spark had nothing to do with Alayne. It was born entirely of Sansa.

Sansa Stark _knew_ Sandor Clegane. She knew of his scars and his fears, knew the terrible things he had done, knew how to bring tears to his eyes. She knew his great strength, tempered and clawed at by his consuming weaknesses. And she knew, with an iron certainty that filled her very bones, that he would not hurt her.

Part of her wondered if he had come to rescue her.

‘No need to fear, sweetling,’ said Petyr. He stroked her cheek. ‘Famed warrior he may be, but he is only one man. The guards will take care of him.’

The guards did not.

Sandor Clegane strode into the room clad in no helm and no armour, but instead in a brown roughspun robe more suited to a wandering brother than a warrior. He held a plain wooden shield and wielded a great shining sword. He did not glance her way, but Alayne’s pulse quickened at the sight of him.

His burns were as terrible as ever; twisted and blackened and gnarled, with that awful piece of bone poking through his skin at the jaw. The good side of his face was still harsh and hard, his grim laugh scraping out like steel on stone. Yet Alayne could not rip her eyes away. He was here, he really was, it was _him_. He was methodically cutting his way through Petyr’s guards, moving with effortless and impossible grace. _Killing’s the sweetest thing there is_ , she thought, as every deathly blow he dealt brought him closer to her and closer.

The last of her father’s guards fell. Beside her, Petyr sucked in a breath. His hand groped for hers and held it, but she barely noticed. The Hound’s gaze had fallen upon her, and she had never seen him look at her so.

‘Little bird,’ he rasped, and she needed to hear nothing else. Sansa Stark yanked her hand away from Littlefinger, ran across the stone floor, and flung herself at Sandor Clegane.

He did not stagger, did not even flinch, though she could feel the tension in his body, see the bewilderment in his face. She did not give him a chance to speak.

‘You’ll take me away, won’t you, my lord?’ Sansa begged him, her knuckles white and clenched around the front of his robe. ‘You don’t care about my claim, I know you don’t. You won’t make me marry anybody. You won’t hurt me. You’ll keep me safe. If anyone tries to hurt me, you’ll kill them, you said so. Please – you’ll never lie to me, I remember. You’ll protect me, you always did. I’ll do anything you want, I swear it. I’ll kiss you, as often as you’d like. I’ll sing you a song every day if you wish it, just please don’t leave me again, my lord. Please take me with you.’

Sandor Clegane stared down at her in absolute shock. Her outburst had rendered him speechless. Petyr too. Sansa revelled in it. She gazed breathlessly at the Hound, her chest pressed against his, and watched as his gaze darted to her lips, to her breasts, before he seemed to shake himself a little. The familiar rage returned to his eyes, but she was past fearing him. She felt a large hand at her back, holding her to him and stroking clumsily at Alayne’s long brown hair, and she buried her face in his chest, breathing in deep. He smelled of sweat and blood. Not wine.

‘What have you done to her?’ she heard him snarl above her head.

‘I’ve been protecting her –’

‘Protecting her so well she threw herself at me?’ The Hound let out a terrible laugh. ‘She wouldn’t even do that when she was betrothed to Joff. I’ll ask again, Littlefinger. What. Have. You. _Done_?’

‘I tell you, I’ve been caring for her. You know they married her to the Imp? Whatever she suffered at his hands, she hasn’t been right since. There are times when I worry for her sanity, you know. So I hid her, kept her tucked away safe with me. I’m not surprised she ran to you. You wouldn’t be the first man to taste her kisses.’

Sansa reared back.

‘That’s a lie!’ she cried. ‘My lord husband never touched me, you know he didn’t! You’ve been waiting to annul the marriage so you can marry me to Sweetrobin, or to Harry the Heir, or to _you_ for all I know, because you want my claim to the North!’ She turned from Littlefinger, sickened, and stared at Sandor Clegane. She was unable to look him in the eye for long, but this time it was not because of his eyes, but because of her own shame. ‘I... I didn’t want to kiss him. He called me Alayne and he said he was my father, but a father should – a true father would not touch his daughter like that.’

She did not dare to look at him now. She was petrified that he wouldn’t want her any more. Perhaps Petyr was right. Perhaps she had begun to lose her mind. At times Alayne had certainly felt that way; as though she was drifting and lost, her head wrapped in fog and her feet barely touching the ground. The world had seemed less threatening, but was that only because she had truly taken leave of her senses?

She felt the Hound grip her closer, and dared to peep up at him. His jaw was clenched hard.

‘Where could I take you, girl?’ he said. ‘There’s nowhere safe for you. The number of buggering knights looking to find you... you’re worth a fat purse of dragons from the eunuch, at the very least.’

‘It’s safe here,’ said Littlefinger. ‘The Vale is barely touched by the war, the Eyrie near impregnable. I know your worth, Clegane. I have just seen it demonstrated against my guards. Stay with me and Sansa. Enter my employ, and I’ll reward you with far more than a fat purse of dragons. Far more than anything Sansa could give you, for that matter. Is that to your liking?’

‘Might be,’ said the Hound.

Sansa’s tummy dropped, and she could no longer look at him. She swayed and guttered against him like a snuffed-out candle. _Every man has a price_ , she thought dully. She had been foolish to think he was different, to think he might care for her. _How many times must I put my faith in the wrong man?_

‘You’ll have gold – double whatever the eunuch is promising – and wine and women. Lands and titles too – marriage, if you wish it. And if you long for a sweeter prize... it’s true Sansa must remain a maid until she’s been wed to a more suitable husband than the Imp. But after that... well. Who’s to say what might happen?’

Sansa trembled. He didn’t mean it. He _couldn’t_. She wondered if she might faint.

‘You’d whore out the Stark girl for my sword.’ The Hound’s voice was flat.

‘That’s not how I’d put it,’ said Littlefinger. ‘And I think you and I both know that’s not just any sword, Clegane.’

The Hound said nothing. He ran his hand up through Alayne’s hair and over her shoulder, until he was holding her chin impossibly gently. He lifted her face to meet his. Her eyes were brimming with tears, her face petrified with fear, her whole body shaking like a leaf. She knew he hated to see her like this, was sure he would snarl and snap at her for being small and weak and afraid, but she met his eyes as best she could and waited. _There are no true knights._

‘Shall I kill him for you, little bird?’

Sansa started, and stared.

 _It’s his eyes,_ she realised. _He is still angry, but something is different. He isn’t angry with_ me _._ In fact, Sandor Clegane was looking down at her with something akin to tenderness. When was the last time anyone had gazed at her in that way? It softened his face completely. She would never have been frightened of him in the least, if only he had looked at her like this.

‘Yes,’ she said faintly.

The Hound disentangled himself from her and strode across the room. Petyr Baelish protested and bargained; offered more gold, more power, more lands, even Sansa’s hand, but it was all for naught. Sansa thought she knew what Sandor Clegane wanted, but it was nothing that Littlefinger would ever think to offer him.

Sandor eased the sword into Petyr’s heart almost lovingly, and Sansa watched him die. He was smaller in death. She had never noticed how much shorter than her he was. She supposed it had never really occurred to her that he could be killed.

The Hound wiped his sword on Petyr’s tunic.

‘Best we leave, little bird,’ he said. ‘I’ll keep you safe. I swear it.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't ask me where I was going with the whole glowing sword thing because I do not remember. 2014 was a simpler time.


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa had made a pack of dresses and smallclothes and all the gold and jewels she could find. The Hound had taken as much food from the kitchens as he could carry, and saddled her a mare in the stables. They rode hard all day, as far away as they could. Sansa hardly dared look away from him. She half-wondered if this was just another dream, and pinched her wrist until it was black and blue. Could he really have come to her rescue? It seemed impossible.

They set up camp in a clearing. She watched Sandor light a fire, wishing she knew how to do it for him, and they ate bread and cold capon beside it. Sansa sat as close to him as she dared. She looked him out of the corner of her eye as he honed his sword. He looked on edge. She wondered what to ask him first.

‘Your sister’s alive,’ he said abruptly. ‘Or was, anyway. Two or three years ago now. Travelled with me for a time. The little wolf bitch.’

‘Arya?’ Sansa blurted. ‘She’s – she’s alive? Please, my lord, what happened to her? Do you know where she is?’

‘Alive, yes. But angry. She’d kill a man soon as look at him, that one. Tried to kill me a few times. She stayed quiet, unless she was shouting at me. No courtesy to her. Not like you, little bird. She did for some of Gregor’s men at the Inn at the Crossroads. Damn near hacked them to bits. I took a stab wound to the leg, and she rode off and left me to die. Don’t know where she went, but I know it wasn’t to the Bolton bastard. I’d wager she’s still alive. If anyone knows how to survive, it’s your sister.’

Sansa let out a shaky breath.

‘Arya,’ she whispered. ‘If I had gone with you, I would have seen her.’

‘You –’ Sandor swallowed audibly. ‘You didn’t want to be coming with me, girl. I was drunk as a dog. Didn’t know when to stop. I couldn’t take care of you then. Not out here, like this. Couldn’t even protect you from my own buggering sworn brothers of the bloody Kingsguard. I should have stopped them. Could have, if I’d tried. If I hadn’t been so gutless.’

Sansa was shocked. ‘But they would have killed you!’

‘Maybe. Would it matter? You needed a protector and I was too drunk and cowardly to do it. Bloody craven.’ He turned suddenly and took her hand, enveloping it in both of his. ‘You can’t know how I’ve regretted it, little bird. It’s all I’ve thought of. Endless months of digging graves, and _seven hells_ , no more wine, and all so I could be of use to you. Why do you think I came, girl? Came for you like a buggering knight in a song, oh, I knew you’d like that. I’m not to your taste, of course. Not a pretty knight, the way you like. A dog, barely fit to lick at your heels. Still, I came.’

Sansa gazed at him in wonder. She felt as though he had reached inside her, wrapped his great hand around her heart, and squeezed.

‘You came the night of the Blackwater too,’ she ventured. ‘You wanted to take me home.’

‘Oh, I know what I wanted.’ He laughed sourly, and let go of her hand. ‘Little bird, I did you wrong that night. And damn near every other night besides, but that night... the dagger. I would never have cut you, but I was... it was...’

‘The fire,’ said Sansa. ‘I know it was the wildfire, my lord. It’s all right. You wanted to help me. You gave me your cloak.’

‘Gave it to you?’ the Hound snorted. ‘I threw it on the floor, girl. I was never fit to wear the bloody thing, and nor were any of the others.’

‘I kept it,’ said Sansa in a rush. ‘I hid it in a chest, with my summer silks.’

Sandor Clegane stilled, and stared at her.

‘You kept it?’

‘I missed you, after you left,’ she said softly. ‘You made me feel safe. After you were gone, there was nobody else who wanted to help me, not truly. You protected me –’

‘I did a piss-poor job of it –’

‘A better job than anybody else,’ said Sansa. ‘I thought of you.’ Her voice faltered. ‘I – I dreamed of you.’

Sandor shook his head, as though he could not believe what he was hearing.

‘I dreamed of the night of the Blackwater, when you came to my room, and you –’

‘Dark dreams, then,’ he said bitterly. ‘Seven hells. Little bird, you’ve no need to fear me now, believe that. I won’t lay a hand on you except to keep you safe. You don’t... you need never sing for me again. Not if you don’t wish it. And the same goes for every other buggering thing you offered me today. I don’t expect anything from you. I did you wrong, and I’ll put it right even if I die in the attempt. I won’t hurt you. Nobody will. You’re safe now.’

Sansa’s breath stuttered. Here, now, he was everything she had been longing for since they killed her father. Not comely, perhaps, but she had long since learned what that was worth. He wanted nothing more than to see her safe and unharmed. Ser Dontos had been nothing. Here was her true Florian; her brave, homely non-knight. Her heart was racing. She could not allow him to think she didn’t care for him.

She reached out and took his hand.

‘Not dark dreams, my lord,’ she said. ‘I dreamed of you rescuing me, from the riots or my aunt’s singer, or from Petyr. I dreamed that we were married – that it was you, and not Lord Tyrion, who came to my bed. I dreamed of the Blackwater because that was when you kissed me.’

Sandor Clegane had gone very, very still.

‘Kissed you?’ he echoed. ‘ _Kissed_ you?’

‘Yes,’ said Sansa. Her cheeks felt hot. ‘You took a song and a kiss. Don’t you remember?’

‘The song, yes. But there was no kiss, girl. There was my dagger, or have you forgotten that? My knife at your pretty throat, and the green fire in the sky.’

‘But... but you kissed me. You must have. I remember it. I have thought of it. You were the first one, you _were_. It was you...’

‘Little bird,’ Sandor sighed heavily. ‘I didn’t kiss you. I wouldn’t subject you to that.’

‘It wasn’t like that,’ said Sansa weakly. ‘You weren’t subjecting me.’

‘Sweet dreams of my pretty face, were they? A comely new husband, coming to bed you? So comely you can hardly bear to look at him. Spare me your courtesies, little bird. You won’t need them out here.’

He pulled his hand away a little, but Sansa grabbed it hard before he could remove it from her grip any further. Before she could think better of it, she reached up and cupped his cheek.

‘You’re not listening to me,’ she said, meeting his eyes and refusing to look away. ‘You never did, really. You think everything I say is just an empty courtesy, but it isn’t. I was never frightened of your scars. It was your temper. You were so angry, and I never knew what you might do next. Especially if you had been drinking.’

Sandor looked down, shamed, but Sansa let go of his hand and reached up so she was touching both cheeks. She stroked her fingers gently along his burns, and he shuddered. ‘Look at me,’ she whispered, and his grey eyes met hers once again.

‘They were _good_ dreams,’ she said warmly. ‘You have always tried to protect me, and even if you sometimes failed, it is more than anyone else has done for me. I have been frightened for years, but when I heard you were coming today, I felt brave. I felt safe.’

Sandor’s mouth was twitching furiously, and it caught Sansa’s gaze. _He does have very nice lips. What is left of them, anyway. And the burns really aren’t so bad..._

She leaned in closer to him. She knew she was pretty, had begun to see how her face and body drew gazes and remarks from the men around her, but she was only now realising how her presence seemed to affect Sandor Clegane. _Why, he is breathing as though he has just fought a battle. And his eyes..._ Had it always been this way, even in King’s Landing? Had she simply been too young to see it?

‘I thought you kissed me,’ she murmured. ‘I remembered it.’

‘I wanted to,’ he breathed. His voice was deep and hoarse, his gaze fixed on her mouth, and he was so close she could feel his words ghosting along her skin, feel his pulse hammering in his neck. Sansa’s tummy flipped. She felt giddy. She was free. She _was_. She could do whatever she liked, and at this moment the only thing she wanted to do was give Sandor Clegane the kiss she thought he had stolen the night he left her.

She drew his face closer and pressed her lips to his.

His mouth was not cruel; not as she had thought. The burned side was hard, and smoother than she had expected, but Sansa did not mind. It meant that even with her eyes closed, she knew it was him. His lips were soft, and surprisingly hesitant. She hummed softly into his mouth, and one of his hands clenched hard at her waist, before jerking back and lightly caressing it instead, seemingly worried he had hurt her. She sighed happily, her lips curving into a smile as she kissed him, and his other hand tangled itself into her hair.

Pulling back only slightly, Sansa kissed his cheeks, forehead, nose, jaw; skin and stubble and burns alike. When she finally stopped, she saw that his eyes were glistening, his mouth twitching.

‘You are no knight,’ she told him, ‘but you saved me all the same.’

‘Little bird,’ he whispered. He pulled her closer, as gently as he could, and buried his face in her neck.

Sansa Stark smiled, stroked his hair, and began to sing him a song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The inevitable canon Unkiss Conversation is going to be quite possibly the funniest thing ever written. This is definitely a much less entertaining version than whatever is cooking in George's head, but I like giving Sansa what she wants.


End file.
